


Countermelody

by cmere



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous musical metaphors, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Smut, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-26 22:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30113220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmere/pseuds/cmere
Summary: On an old tour bus, tucked into the corner of a bunk bed, there's a bit of wood that gets covered up when the particleboard shifts back and forth on the road. If you catch it just after the bus has gone over the right kind of bump, you can shine a light up and find a message etched there, with the tip of a key or maybe a Swiss Army knife.Alex discovered it within his first week of the tour. He's never told anyone about it. It says:RULE #1: DON'T FUCK YOUR BANDMATELuckily for him, as a solo artist, he doesn't really have to worry about it.ORAlex is opening for Henry on tour and, uh, hates him. A lot.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 106
Kudos: 220





	1. Dallas ➔ Austin

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic last November and right when I said out loud on tumblr I was never going to finish it, of course I was instantly inspired to work on it and only it. I barely refrained from turning it into another massive multichapter wip it would take me ten years to finish but I kind of really wanted to! Instead you get it now. It's completely written and I'll upload part two in a few days! :D
> 
> Huuuuge thanks to [Laura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_m_disappeared/pseuds/i_m_disappeared) for making me go back and look at it and realize I kinda liked it, to [Len](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrefectMoony/pseuds/PrefectMoony) for all the encouragement and feedback as always, and to [Sconi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover) for the absolutely impeccable beta that made this a MUCH better fic than it was!!! So, so appreciative of y'alls time and kindness! <3
> 
> This fic was a blast to write. Please enjoy!!!! <3
> 
> CW for canon-typical references to losing a parent

On an old tour bus, tucked into the corner of a bunk bed, there's a bit of wood that gets covered up when the particleboard shifts back and forth on the road. If you catch it just after the bus has gone over the right kind of bump, you can shine a light up and find a message etched there, with the tip of a key or maybe a Swiss Army knife.

In the secret history of rock and roll tours—an insular gossip mill which publicists fan the flames of as much as possible—there's no way of knowing who, exactly, wrote it. Some swear it was Stevie Nicks, soon after Mick had moved on with her best friend. Others say it was Meg White, lovingly scratched with a drum stick she had whittled down to a sharp point. But it doesn't matter. The writing stays, long held advice passed down through the generations of people who understand what it's like to cross the country on a bus, playing sold-out venues every night and collapsing in your bunk in a drunken ball each night.

Alex discovered it within his first week of the tour. He's never told anyone about it. It says:

_RULE #1: DON'T FUCK YOUR BANDMATE_

Luckily for him, as a solo artist, he doesn't really have to worry about it.

—

A multi-city national tour would run any normal person ragged. It’s hours and hours spent on the bus, landing in a new city every day only to leave again. Unpacking equipment and setting it all up, then breaking it down and packing it all up again. Eating shit food because you can put whatever you want in your rider, and the vegetable tray is never as appealing as the cheeseburger. Getting a hotel room if you’re lucky, although sometimes it’s even harder to sleep because they’re unfamiliar. Partying and staying out too late at every opportunity only to get back on the bus and do it all over again the next day.

Alex has never really considered himself a normal person, and he loves every fucking second of it. The whirlwind of activity and crowds and new places and new faces and being up on a major stage in front of thousands of fans feeds him in a way nothing ever has before. It's his first U.S. tour, and it's not only met all his expectations—it's surpassed them utterly.

Even if he's just the opening act, and he's opening for Henry fucking Prince. 

It's an amazing opportunity, everyone told him. It could be his big break. Their market audience is similar as singer-songwriters, but what Alex brings as the guy with the guitar is different than what Henry brings as the guy with the piano. And Henry's family is musical royalty—from his dad, Arthur Prince, who was an absolute rock legend, to his sister, Bea Prince, lead singer and guitar player for the Punk Princesses, who have smashed records all over the world. He can't pass this up.

So fine. It's fine. It's amazing. Alex is living it up and soaking in the absolute exhilaration of singing to screaming crowds in a new city every day. It doesn't matter that Henry Prince is completely insufferable, swanning around like he hates the attention, too good to take selfies with fans and party with Alex when they get the chance because he has to go back to the bus and put on his little peely facial masks and journal incessantly about how the show went and what he messed up and how he can make it better. He's seen how Henry pretends to get all nervous before he goes on, only to step out on stage and eat up the fucking attention like he's a frat boy at UT Austin on Taco fucking Tuesday.

Henry Prince puts on an act, and that's what Alex hates. He knows they both embody the feeling that the music inside them is too big to keep to themselves, that they have to get it out and share it with people. The difference between them is that Alex isn't too good to admit he loves seeing people receive it, and Henry pretends it's something he has to suffer through for his craft. It's fake as hell.

Henry's big, stupid blue eyes and perfect blonde hair and long, elegant fingers stroking the piano keys are also irritating, as is his big, stupid tour bus which Alex has heard not only has a private master bedroom, but also a fucking recording studio with a goddamn baby grand piano inside it. No, thank you. Alex is just fine sleeping in bunks with the rest of the crew, too many of them crammed in too small of a space, because that's what touring is about. The camaraderie. The shared experiences. Not shutting yourself off from everyone and pretending you're a goddamn—well—prince.

—

"Diaz, sound check time. Let's go." Nora, Alex's tour manager and best friend on the crew, unceremoniously wakes him up from a nap with a sharp slap against his cheek.

"Jesus fuck, do you always have to be so violent?" Alex grumbles, pushing himself into a sitting position. He sniffs under his arms—yikes. "Can you please make Prince Dickhead do his sound check first so I can take a shower?"

"Henry prefers to do his sound check last, and since he's the one who actually makes the tickets for this tour sell, we do whatever he wants."

"It doesn't even make sense," Alex complains, rolling out of the bunk and ruffling his hair. "We just have to set up my stuff only to take it all down and set his up, and then we have to switch it out again for the show—"

"Yeah, plugging and unplugging your acoustic is a real hardship." Nora snaps her gum with an eyeroll. "Diva."

"I'm not the diva! He's the fucking diva!" Alex shouts as they exit the bus—and run directly into Henry, who's clearly also making his way into the venue, the corner of his mouth firmly pinched and his signature leather bomber jacket hanging over his shoulders, even though they're in fucking Texas and it's eighty fucking degrees outside. 

Alex experiences that vague sense of guilt he sometimes gets when Henry hears Alex insult him, but it's not strong enough to even try to pretend he was talking about someone else. Henry eyes him, then simply strolls past. He always looks perfectly put together, even after weeks on the road, sleeping on a bus, unshowered in close quarters with others. The only evidence that anything might be off is the dark circles under his eyes. Alex wonders, watching Henry's retreating form, if Henry's been having trouble sleeping. He shouldn't be, since he has his own goddamn private bedroom on his luxe fucking bus. But Alex has pretty much been surviving off a sweet mix of caffeine and adrenaline for the last several weeks, and he suddenly thinks Henry might be doing the same, which makes his stomach clench for reasons completely unknown. 

Sound check is kind of annoying and takes twice as long as it should, because they're having issues with the balance of the mic. Of course, now Henry will breeze through it after Alex has been up there working out all the kinks; that's probably why he makes Alex go first, anyway. By the time they wrap up, Alex is crabby as fuck. Henry's waiting in the wings of the stage, watching him with a weird kind of intensity.

"You sound good out there," Henry says as he approaches. He _would_ have a snarky little comment after that mess of a soundcheck.

"Your kingdom awaits, Your Highness," Alex replies with as much sarcasm as he can muster. He really just wants to take a fucking shower and see what kind of food they have for him and get in a chill mindset for the show—far, far away from Henry Prince.

— 

Alex steps back out on the stage with the swell of emotion that's becoming oddly familiar—the same mix of excitement, anticipation, and pride that he's felt every show he's ever performed. It's only grown stronger since they crossed the state border into Texas, the closer they get to Austin, his chance to play a hometown show for all his friends and family and party with them after. The venue tonight is sold out—it’s a cool, older theater with an intimate feel on the floor and a mezzanine balcony full of people watching from above. 

Alex knows full well he's not the headliner; Henry's mere presence in the same zip code as him reminds him of it every fucking day. But as he stands there, bright lights in his eyes, more able to feel the vibrations of the sounds of the crowd than actually see them, he can't help but imagine they're really screaming for him.

By the end of his set, they are. Alex exits the stage higher than high, the feel of sharp steel guitar strings still under his fingertips, sweat prickling at his hairline and spots flashing in his vision where the lights had blazed. The crew is rushing around to prepare for Henry's set, and Alex hates this part—the come down, the darkness, the chill that sets in as the sweat dries on his body, the realization that even if he won them over by the end, they were just biding their time for _this_. A blond British prick in a vintage leather bomber jacket and his grand piano, his hands big enough to stretch halfway across the keys, long fingers as light as feathers making actual magic. Alex hates this part because he tells himself it'll be different tonight, that he'll go back to his dressing room and joke around with Nora and have a drink and hang out at the merch table to flirt with fans until it's time to pack up again. Instead he just stands there— _every single time_ —waiting like the rest of them for Henry fucking Prince and his dangerous liquid voice that sluices its way down Alex's spine.

Alex knows without a doubt that someone could crack his vertebrae open after listening to Henry sing and pure, viscous gold would come pouring out, thick enough to drown him.

Henry brushes by him to take the stage without a word.

—

There's a lot of downtime on tour. Hours spent driving from city to city, the repetition of unpacking and repacking, rushing through lunch stops only to arrive early and wait for hours when they arrive. It's a six hour trip today, and Alex is fully prepared to hang with the crew on his bus, playing cards and shooting the shit. Right before they're about to leave, Nora grabs his arm.

"Come on. They invited us to ride along on the big bus."

"Why would we do that?" Alex spits, rage curling up inside him at the mere suggestion that they have to be _invited_ and the implication that of course they'd _accept_ , even though if he took a second to think about it objectively, the big bus has TVs and video game systems and comfortable couches and good snacks, and it would definitely be far superior to spend time there than on the rickety old piece of shit they refer to as Alex’s tour bus.

"Because I wanna play Call of Duty and you're not leaving me alone in that viper pit,” Nora replies, full of pragmatism as usual.

"Nora—" Alex protests, but she's already dragging him up the stairs. The door swings shut behind them as the bus rolls out.

"Look who I found!" Nora crows as they step into the main space of the bus, and Alex has to admit he experiences a pleasurable little squirm at the cheers that rise up from Henry's crew. Henry's sitting near the back, earbuds in and eyes closed. Alex rolls his eyes on instinct. No wonder they're excited to see him; Henry's probably never any fun.

Three hours in and Alex has to admit he's actually having a good time. Nora is in her element pissing off idiot boys who thought they'd be able to beat her at a first-person shooter game, which is laughable. Henry left at some point through the door to the back of the bus, so Alex hasn't had to worry about him, and he's enjoying getting to know the crew on this side better. It helps that they're all raving about his music.

Alex is raiding the snack table when one of Henry's crew members, Pez, appears at his side. Pez flashes him a grin. "Nice to see you round these parts."

Alex smirks. "I didn't know I'd be welcome on the big bus."

"You're always welcome, mate. Henry'd say the same thing." 

Alex snorts as they carry their food over to some seats in the corner. "Yeah, I don't know if that's true, but thanks for the sentiment."

"Seriously. I know he comes off all business, but it's just because he hasn't figured out how to deal with the pressure."

"What pressure?" Alex scoffs. "He's a guaranteed success. Blond-haired, blue-eyed pretty boy from a famous family. He could go out there high and drunk and bomb his way through a set and the fans would still fall all over him."

Pez looks at him seriously. "I've been with Henry since the beginning of his career. All he's heard his whole life is that he'll never live up to his father. He would have chosen any other path to try to get away from it, but music is who he is. Deeply, intrinsically, utterly." Pez crunches on a handful of chips. "Like you, I think."

Alex can't deny that, which makes him uncomfortable. 

"Still, he could at least pretend he enjoys this." Alex sweeps a hand around the bus, outfitted with pure luxury, velveteen couches and plush carpet and huge tinted windows. "This kind of success is what I've always dreamed about, and he acts like it's nothing. An annoying side effect of performing for thousands of screaming fans every night. He never even hangs out with us after the shows."

Pez gives him a knowing look. "Don't stop trying, all right? Sometimes he needs a little push. Or a big one. But this is his dream, too."

Henry appears back through the doors at that moment, wearing a plain white t-shirt and fitted jeans and somehow looking perfect, as usual. He instantly zeroes in on Pez and Alex sitting next to each other with a look of utter terror, then approaches hesitantly.

"Speak of the devil," Pez says brightly. The terror on Henry's face intensifies. Alex's eyes slide to where his biceps are bulging at the sleeve of his t-shirt; something flutters in his chest.

"Erm, sorry to interrupt," Henry says, then pauses, as though waiting for someone to tell him to go away. "Pez, could I speak with you?"

"Of course, babes," Pez says, jumping up and clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Lovely to chat with you, Alexander."

"See you," Alex says with a shrug, not entirely sure what just happened and not interested in trying to find out.

— 

Playing Austin is different.

Alex knew it would be—the knowledge that people are truly there to see _him_ , the sound of the entire crowd singing his lyrics along with him, seeing faces he recognizes when they turn up the house lights. Locking eyes with his mom in the front row and watching her scream, because she was there through all of it, paying for guitar lessons and voice lessons, listening to Alex practice and write and yell in frustration again and again and again, looking over contracts with her lawyer glasses on and negotiating on Alex's behalf. She was basically his first manager when he was just a dumb kid on YouTube trying to amass a following, in between making dinner and helping June with her AP Government homework, and it's indescribable to see her here, for _her_ to see _him_ , to know that all they went through together was worth it.

Alex drags out his set a little bit longer because he's just not ready for it to end. Afterward, his whole family piles into his dressing room, chattering loudly and destroying the food and making loud champagne toasts to Alex's success, and he doesn't have to think about Henry out there, doesn't experience a quiver down his spine at the thought of everyone he knows hearing Henry's soulful voice and watching the music move through him.

He doesn't even want to go see it for himself. Really, he doesn't.

Once the show ends, Alex bids goodbye to his family and helps pack up the bus, as usual. They're staying the night in Austin and Liam is throwing him a party. Alex is fully prepared for the best night of his life to only get better.

He grabs his guitar, the last remaining equipment that he won't let anyone else touch. When he exits the dressing room, a body slams fully into him and almost sends him flying to the ground.

"What the fuck—"

"I'm so sorry," Henry says with a comically upset expression, because of fucking course it's him. Alex briefly wonders if it's possible for Henry to make another face in his presence. He would normally feel enraged, but they're in Austin and he's already feeling the champagne and he's on his way to a party where everyone is going to be celebrating _him_ , so he weirdly doesn't mind. 

They eye each other, then start walking side by side up towards the buses without a word.

"My friend Liam is throwing me a party," Alex blurts out. 

"That's nice," Henry says, a tense edge to his voice. 

"I just mean…" Alex blows the hair up off his forehead, plowing forward. This has never ended well in the past, but for some reason, he keeps trying, wanting to prove that he's right, that Henry is capable of enjoying himself like a normal twenty-something. And Pez's words from the day before are echoing in his ears: _Don't stop trying, all right?_ "You should come."

"I don't know if that's a good idea—"

"C'mon, man, I know you're usually too important for everyone else or whatever, but it's my hometown. My friends would be really excited to meet you." Alex forces the truth out. There's a pause; he can only imagine what Henry is thinking. "It seems like you try to be serious all the time for no reason that I can tell, and whatever, it's your life to waste, but you can have fun, too. This is supposed to be, like, the best time of our lives, right?"

They exit into the warm night air and come to a stop outside the door. A sad laugh escapes Henry. He doesn't meet Alex's eyes. "That's what my dad would have said."

Alex pulls up his mental file on Arthur Prince. Henry's blond hair and blue eyes, but less Prince Charming and more Han Solo, rugged and tanned to Henry's pale, delicate refinery. Rock legend with enough platinum albums and Grammys to fill Lady Bird Lake. Died in a plane crash on his way home from a U.S. tour, trying to make it to his daughter's violin recital in time.

Alex has thought time and time again how lucky Henry was to have a family like that, to pave the way for his legacy with their own. How _privileged_. He's suddenly acutely aware that he's never thought about what it would have been like to lose it. 

An ache lands like a rock in his heart.

He reaches out and touches Henry's elbow. "I promise I'll show you a good time. You deserve to let loose a little."

Henry finally looks up to meet Alex's gaze, the grim little line of his mouth softening, curving up. "I suppose I do."

— 

Since Alex actually managed to convince Henry to come to the party, he feels some kind of weird sense of responsibility to keep an eye on him and make sure he's not sitting alone in the corner or something. Of course, at no point is Henry alone long enough to sit in the corner; he's got fans—Alex’s _friends_ —approaching him at every turn, fawning over him, touching his arms. Every time Henry meets Alex's eyes, he takes a progressively bigger gulp out of his red Solo cup. Alex isn't sure if it's a plea for help, but he's not about to give Henry the satisfaction of approaching him first. If Henry wants help, he can come to Alex.

Later, when a lot of people have gone home and everything is dim and quieter and a little bit blurry around the corners of his vision, Alex is chatting with some of his old lacrosse buddies when he catches sight of Henry on the couch. Talking to Liam. There are about four other people crammed onto it, so the two of them are in very close quarters; their heads are tilted in together, mirroring each other, pressed together all along their sides and legs. Liam is saying something with a self-effacing grin, and Henry's laugh is so loud it tinkles across the entire room.

Alex narrows his eyes. What the _fuck_ could Liam be talking about that has Henry laughing so loud and genuine? Liam is gesturing wildly, and Alex watches Henry's hand fall onto his knee as he counters with his own animated story about something, eyes bright. Alex can't hear what they're saying, but something is coiling sour and hot in his stomach. He's never seen Henry look at anyone like that before. He's hardly ever seen Henry look this lively at all, except when he's on stage. And even then it's more of an intense, soulful, yearning kind of liveliness—not this bright, happy, smiling-with-full-teeth look that Alex can't tear his eyes away from.

He sees Liam gesture to Henry's drink, which Henry hands over to him with a nod. Then Liam gets up from the couch and heads into the kitchen. Alex takes the opportunity to beeline straight for Henry and crams himself onto the couch next to him.

"Alex," Henry says with an air of surprise, as though this isn't Alex's fucking party thrown by Alex's fucking best friend in Alex's fucking hometown.

"Having fun?" Alex says. Loudly. Possibly too loudly for the chill, three A.M., after-the-after-party vibe, but it's just what comes out of his drunk ass mouth.

"I am, actually," Henry says, and why does he look like he's trying not to smile? "I'm really enjoying getting to know Liam."

"Great," Alex says flatly. "Awesome. I'm surprised you've lasted this long." He can hear the pettiness in his own voice, but he's powerless to stop it.

Henry shrugs. Alex feels it, since they're pressed so tightly together. "I can be a bit of a night owl. Are you enjoying the party? Everyone's been gushing about you to me all night, actually. Telling me how lucky I am to be on tour with you."

Alex's body tingles pleasantly at the thought of everyone complimenting him. He smirks. "The one place I have more fans than you."

"You have plenty of fans, everywhere we go," Henry says, one corner of his mouth turned up. "You charm everyone you meet."

Alex can't help but feel like Henry's making a dig that people only like him for his personality. "Thanks for the backhanded insult about my music."

Henry lets out a slight groan, more of a loud exhale. "No, Alex, that's not what I—"

Liam's approaching again, so Alex springs up, cutting him off. "I'll let you two get back to whatever you were so giggly about."

Alex doesn't storm off, as a rule, because he saunters instead. But if he ever did, now would definitely be the time.

After he's angrily taken a couple more shots while glaring through the doorway from the kitchen, someone takes over the bluetooth and puts on some weird electronica, and Liam turns off the lights, and the small remaining crowd starts drunkenly dancing together in the dark living room, a writhing amoeba made up of a dozen human bodies. It’s then that Henry finds him, like a man lost at sea.

“Alex.” Henry has to come very close to him to be heard over the music. Alex’s hands land on his hips as Henry leans into his ear. “This has been...nice, but I don’t dance, so I’m going back to the bus.”

“Loosen up, Your Highness,” Alex slurs, exerting pressure this way and that, trying to get Henry’s hips to sway. Henry looks completely panicked now, which pleases Alex immensely. “Or are you too cool for the commoners?”

“Quite the opposite, I think,” Henry says, his eyes trained on Alex. Alex doesn’t release him, and after a moment, he feels Henry start to relax a little. “But I should get some sleep. Even if it’s just a lumpy bus bed waiting for me.”

“You come home with me,” Alex decides. It seems only natural. Why would he sleep on the bus when they're in Alex's hometown? “I’m spending the night at my mom’s house. There’s a bed for you.”

"Alex—"

“Shhh,” Alex shushes him, pulling him closer, bumping into bodies behind him and not caring remotely. “Dance.”

In Alex’s extremely drunken haze, he thinks Henry could almost be a regular person right now, a guy Alex stumbled into at the club, someone who let him flash a smirk and get a little too close. His body is hard under Alex’s hands, rigid, but he’s softening as Alex’s arms wind around his lower back, and Alex likes the way he can feel Henry starting to unravel beneath them, like he’s shedding the layers of everything he thinks he _should_ be and letting himself just _be_ , instead. 

He’s so fucking tall, and looking up at him is hard, so Alex rests his head against Henry’s shoulder, and he feels Henry’s arms wrap tentatively around him, and it’s warm and cozy and busy and loud all at the same time, like everything Alex enjoys about performing—the intimacy of locking eyes with someone in the audience, a shared private moment in the midst of a huge crowd. Just the two of them and the music, Henry’s chest rising and falling against his own.

—

Alex emerges slowly from the kind of sleep that drags you deep into the murky unknown and forces you to claw your way back out. He doesn't open his eyes at first, just lays there, semi-somnolent, different parts of his body awakening in pieces. First, his head, with a distinctive throbbing, pounding sensation behind his eyes. Next, his body, cocooned among softness like he's in a sweat lodge made of velvet, overly hot and sticky. He vaguely registers he’s got morning wood, his dick comfortably nestled against something pliably firm and nice. It's not entirely unusual for him to wake up hard, but it is kind of surprising considering the massive hangover he feels taking over his body. 

Finally, his stomach roars to life, curdling in an all-encompassing and extremely unpleasant way. He rolls over and blindly gropes for the trash can next to the bed, but when he heaves, nothing comes out. Only then does he force his eyes open, the gray light of early morning filling his childhood bedroom at his mom's house in Austin.

"Alex?" 

The voice next to him is deep and scratchy and unmistakably British. His stomach curdles again, even more forcefully than before, this time accompanied by a jolt of panic. He forces himself to take several slow, deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth, before rolling back over with at least a minor level of confidence that he's not going to puke everywhere.

"What...is happening," Alex says flatly. His own voice is hoarse; his throat feels jagged. Henry, in bed at his side, pushes himself hesitantly into a sitting position. He's shirtless, and Alex is definitely too confused and hungover to stop himself from openly gaping at the miles of pale skin over his collarbones, his chest, his stomach, his arms. 

"Are you all right?" Henry's face is flushed, his forehead shiny with sweat. 

Only then does Alex realize part of the softness contributing to his personal sweat lodge was Henry's skin, pressed up against him underneath the blankets, and the comfortable nest his dick fit into so cozily couldn’t have been anything other than Henry’s ass. His throat tightens with indescribable emotions that he can't possibly begin to parse in this state. What happened? They didn't…they couldn't have. 

_Right?_

"Fine," Alex manages, pushing himself up as well and reaching for the glass of water on the side table. He silently thanks his past, shitfaced self for preparing so well for this horrific moment. It's only then that he realizes he's shirtless as well; in fact, he's only wearing boxers. He can't see what's going on below Henry's waist, still covered with blankets. Cool water slides down his throat, soothing him and giving him a physical sensation other than nauseous overheating to focus on. "What…I think I…how did we get here?"

"Oh," Henry says, his eyes widening. How does he still sound so godforsaken British this early in the morning? Does he realize Alex’s dick was just pressed into his ass while they slept? "We took an Uber. Could I possibly…have a sip of that?" 

It takes Alex far too long to realize he's asking about the water. He hands it to him wordlessly, chewing his lip.

"Yeah, but how…why…" Alex gives a helpless little gesture in the space between them. "You…here…I…we didn't…"

Henry's eyes go, impossibly, even wider as he sputters out the drink of water he just took. 

"No! No, Christ no. I was…quite drunk as well, but I remember complaining about having to go back to sleep on a bus, and you practically dragged me in the car with you and said there was room for me at your mum's house. I think we both fell asleep quite quickly once we got here." Henry takes another long drink of water, avoiding Alex's eyes with determination.

They didn't. Alex wouldn't. They just fell asleep in a drunken pile in Alex's bed, and somehow slept pressed close together all night. Alex’s body always responds to physical contact, so the boner means literally nothing. Nothing weird about that. It's _fine._

Henry’s eyes land on Alex’s lap. His erection has thankfully subsided what with the intense nausea, but he can actually _feel_ the way Henry’s eyes slide up over his bare chest, and all of a sudden everything seems extremely, urgently awful, and he needs to get out of this bed and out of this room and out of this house fucking immediately.

"Um," Alex says, fumbling in the sheets looking for his phone. "It's…we probably need to get back to the buses. Right?"

"Right," Henry says. He coughs delicately before handing the water back to Alex, who chugs it, then leaps out of bed with a speed his body was not fully prepared for. He stumbles, catching himself on the desk, and takes several more slow, deep breaths. Somehow, he can feel the weight of Henry's eyes on him, even from behind. He becomes very conspicuously aware that he's only wearing boxers.

"Right," Alex echoes, then hastily grabs for clothes off the floor, pulling a t-shirt over his head and his chinos from the previous night back on and stuffing the rest in his overnight bag. "I'll just, um, and then you can have some, uh, privacy, and my sister can probably give us a ride back to the—"

"Yes, yes, good," Henry interrupts him, sounding equally as frantic, as though he, too, just now realized that they spent the night drunkenly cuddling in their underwear in bed and now have to return to a very bizarre reality in which Alex is opening for Henry on tour and hates every fiber of his being. Alex scoops up his bag off the floor and crosses the room in two large strides, not looking back as he throws the door open.

"I'll meet you out here when you're ready," he says, slamming it shut behind him and only then turning to face it. He presses his forehead lightly against the wood grain, trying not to groan at his own idiocy.

How fucking awkward is this going to be now? 


	2. Los Angeles ➞ New York City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all seriously make my day every day! I hope you enjoy the rest! :D <3

As it turns out, pretty fucking awkward.

They were always decent at ignoring each other; at least, Henry was always decent at ignoring Alex, and Alex was decent at pretending he wasn't paying any attention to Henry while privately seething about every fucking move he made around the venue or the buses or wherever else they ran into each other. Over the next couple of days, though, everything feels heightened, tense and uncertain, the air thick anytime they're anywhere near the same vicinity. It's worse for Alex, because shortly after getting back to the blessed peace and quiet of his tour bus in Austin, he realized that in the process of gathering up his things, he accidentally took Henry's fucking leather bomber jacket, and he's been too freaked out by the mere idea of approaching him to try to give it back.

It escalates further when Alex finally unpacks the rest of his bag and finds a familiar old copy of Rolling Stone in it. One that Alex lay awake many nights as a teenager staring at, and—though he will never admit this to anyone—stroking the cover of. The cover which just happens to feature Henry's face and his long neck and his thick, gorgeous hair.

He calls his sister. "June, what the fuck?"

"Did you find my gift?" June sounds smug. Alex is not a fan of smug June. "I was cleaning out my old room while I was home for your show, and I thought you'd want it more than me. Y'know, since I only kept it around for your benefit anyway."

"That's not—it wasn't—" Alex splutters, trying to find the right words to express his rage. "Just because—I was only a kid—"

"You were sixteen, and I know you worshipped him. What happened?"

Alex thinks back to those nights, that picture of Henry, young and spirited and gorgeous. Like he had already experienced a thousand different lifetimes and was about to write a platinum album about every single one of them, each laced with raw emotion and tender vocals and stunning piano chords. The way Alex wanted to be him so bad, growing up around music, his entire family probably jamming and songwriting together on Sunday afternoons before dinner, introductions to producers and record labels and other musicians a normal, everyday occurrence.

"I met him," Alex says, acidic. "He's a total dick, and he's had fucking everything just handed to him, and it's like he doesn't even get how big of a deal it is to be where he is. He doesn't even fucking _enjoy_ it, any of it." 

The rant is familiar; Alex has spit it out time and time again to whoever will listen. For the first time, though, something is creeping over his shoulder while he speaks, making him doubt his own words. He tries to shake it off, but it clings to him, persistent.

"Seemed like he was enjoying it at Liam's party the other night."

Alex groans. "Don't fucking remind me. I have his stupid leather jacket and I can't even bring myself to be around him long enough to give it back."

"Oh, did your things get mixed up when you spent the night in bed together?" Alex can hear in the smirk in June's voice. It takes everything in him not to throw his phone across the room.

"I'm extremely over this conversation. I have to go."

"Alex, wait. I'm just saying, you two were, uh, getting along by the end of the other night. I _saw_ it. And even if that was just drunken good feelings, I think you have more in common than you think. I got to talk to him for a while. He really cares, you know?"

Alex heaves a sigh. "I don't know. Sometimes I get these flashes that make it seem like he does. But most of the time he's so fucking aloof. Not just to me, to his crew, his fans, everyone."

"He's not like you. He wasn't born to be on stage with everyone scrutinizing his every move. But I think he feels as strongly about his music as you do about yours. He just needs to protect himself more than you do."

Alex purses his lips. At that moment, Nora pops her head into the trailer and calls, "Sound check time!" Alex nods at her.

"I have to go,” he tells June, rattled. He doesn't like the way she can get under his skin so easily. Or really, if he thinks too hard about it, the way Henry can.

"Okay, but please promise me one thing."

"What?"

"That you'll give Henry his jacket back. He was telling me at the party it was his dad's jacket and wearing it is, like, the way he keeps him alive on stage. Did you know that?"

"Oh," Alex says, his throat constricting painfully. "No, I...didn't."

"And at least give him a chance to prove himself to you, okay? He's the real deal."

"I'll give him the jacket. You said one promise."

He can practically hear June's eyes rolling. "Have a great show."

"I always do." Alex hangs up, prickling with discomfort.

— 

Another forty-eight hours go by before Alex is ready to face Henry. They're in L.A. with a day off, and he slept in and spent the afternoon pretending to read, and his head feels relatively clear as he makes his way to Henry's tour bus after dinner.

Alex raps twice on the door before letting himself inside. It's nearly empty save for one crew member furiously tapping at the controller of his XBox. 

"Hey, man," Alex says. The crew member grunts. "Is Henry around?"

"Studio," he replies without looking up. 

"Thanks," Alex says and makes his way towards the back of the bus. 

He opens the door to the small studio slowly, expecting to encounter an entourage of Henry's producers. To his surprise, there's no one in the sound booth, just Henry in the studio, playing the most haunting, lyrical tune Alex has ever heard and singing quietly along.

_"Should I tell you that when we’re apart_  
_your body comes back to me in dreams?_  
_That when I sleep_  
_I see you_  
_the dip of your waist_  
_the freckle above your hip…"_

There's an awkward plonk, clearly a misplay, and then Henry is crashing the piano keys and letting out a roar of frustration. Alex is taken aback. He drapes Henry's jacket across the back of a chair before leaning in to press down the speaker. "Don't stop on my account."

Henry visibly jumps, head whipping to the side. "Jesus Christ, Alex!"

"Did I scare you, sweetheart?" Alex smirks.

"Why are you listening to this rubbish?" Henry moans. "No one is supposed to hear this shite."

"That wasn't _shite,"_ Alex tells him through the speaker, mocking Henry's British accent as much as possible. "It was fucking...good. Like, amazing. Did you write that?"

"Of course." Henry looks embarrassed. "I write everything I play."

"Hey, play it again."

Henry groans. "I don't think—"

"Play it. Now. Let's go."

Henry threads a hand through his hair and tilts his head back before turning to shoot Alex a glare. The effect is dampened a bit by the small smile on his lips. 

"Fine. If you'll play something for me after."

Alex is surprised but a little impressed. He wouldn't have taken Henry for a bargainer. "Fine. Go."

Alex hits record as soon as Henry looks away. Henry takes a deep breath, then returns his fingers to the keys, fluttering them so quickly and lightly it looks like a bird taking a bath. The tune is absolutely beautiful, unlike anything Alex has heard before. Henry's voice is also unlike anything Alex has heard before; the sound practically melts into Alex, rich and low. He's singing _pianissimo_ , but every word is enunciated perfectly, easy to understand. 

Alex's breath steals away from him at the sound, but he actually can't take his eyes off Henry at all. It's like Henry's entire body feels the music, but not in a weird, performative way—with Henry, it looks totally natural, like the sounds are moving through him, coursing through his entire body, emerging through his fingers on the keys and the vibrations of his throat. Alex is totally mesmerized.

Henry gets to the same spot, then crashes down the entire piano again. He didn't even play anything wrong this time. 

"Why'd you stop?" Alex asks, hitting the pause on the recording.

"I just—don't know where to go from here. I know it needs something...more. But I don't know what." Alex can hear in his voice the extent to which Henry is internally tearing himself to shreds. Against his will, something pangs, painful, in his chest. He knows that feeling all too well.

Alex lets himself into the studio, picking the acoustic guitar out of the corner and approaching the piano. Henry looks up at him with wide eyes; Alex appreciates the rare opportunity to look down at him in return.

"Are you returning the favor now?"

Alex very pointedly refrains from making a sexual innuendo, or even raising a suggestive eyebrow, which he think is extremely generous. This is the first time he and Henry are talking somewhat normally completely sober, and he doesn't want to fuck it up.

"Play it again," Alex says in response, settling himself on the edge of the piano bench. Henry scoots slightly to avoid their arms brushing. "I don't have cooties."

"I'm—what are you doing?"

"I have an idea. Just play it again."

"You still owe me," Henry says, dubious. Alex rolls his eyes. 

"I'm aware. Let's go."

Henry takes a deep breath, centering his hands on the piano. Alex watches them. Actually, he can't look away. They look like they were made to be on the black and ivory keys, bringing explosive color to shades of gray.

Henry plays his opening bars again, then gets into the first verse. This time, Alex joins him, plucking along with a countermelody, and he sings as well, harmonizing a third below. He's still watching Henry's hands; he doesn't think, just watches, just lets the sounds wash over him, pouring through him and emerging something different, something they're creating together. Something only they can create together.

Alex's voice is rough and low to Henry's soft, clear baritone. He notices the way Henry crescendos now into the part he had been unsure about, the way his hands keep flying, his foot pumping the pedal, and Alex plucks along, his voice falling quiet with the unfamiliar lyrics. 

When they get to the end of the verse, Henry pauses, his hands still on the keys. The sudden quiet hangs between them, somehow as loud as the music had been a moment ago. Henry's arm, Alex realizes, is touching his, now. It's warm. Alex looks up to his left, and Henry's gaze turns to him at the same time. When their eyes meet, Alex is struck in the chest at the intensity of his endlessly blue eyes. 

"How did you know what to play to get me through that?" Henry says quietly, but there's an undeniable urgency to his voice. Alex shrugs, unable to break the eye contact, even as he feels heat prickle up his neck.

"I just played what I felt."

"It's so natural for you. It just—comes to you. Doesn't it?"

"Well, yeah. It's like that for you, too."

"It's not," Henry counters, his voice louder all of a sudden. "It's not easy. It's not natural. It's taken me months to work this out and I only got as far as you heard when you came in. Then you play along, and it's like it's...a part of you. It's incredible."

Alex's face is burning, now, too. 

"You're incredible," Henry adds fiercely. The moment seems to be moving in slow motion. Henry's hands drop into his lap. Then, he leans in, and his mouth is touching Alex's before Alex can even fully register what's happening.

Henry's lips are so soft.

It's the only thing Alex can think, the only thought capable of entering his mind, and then he just lets his body take over, gripping his guitar tighter in his lap and falling forward into the kiss. Henry's hands come up around his neck, and the feel of those talented fingers on the skin over his vertebrae sends a decisive quiver down Alex's spine. Henry's pulling Alex closer, somehow, even though he's not sure how they could even get any closer than their mouths pressed together and there's the stupid giant guitar in between them—

_Oh._ The guitar. Alex pulls back to see fear flash through Henry's eyes, and he holds up a finger, then carefully sets the guitar down on the ground next to them. When he looks back, Henry still seems wary, uncertain. Alex can only imagine the extent to which he's currently overthinking, but luckily for both of them, Alex isn't thinking at all. He's moving on pure instinct, and every instinct in his body is screaming at him to move closer to Henry, now, to slide his hands around Henry's narrow waist, to feel Henry's fingers press up through his hair, and then they're kissing again, and it's the easiest thing in the world. Like making music.

Henry makes a noise against Alex's lips, and it _is_ music. He slips his tongue into Alex's mouth, and it's sweet, slick warmth, and pure connection, and it feels like Alex has just done a hundred shows and he's soaking in the screams of the audience, but it's just him and Henry in the quiet studio, the only sounds the soft suction of their mouths together and their shaky breaths. Alex doesn't know how much time passes before Henry pulls back, leaning their foreheads together. He doesn't let go of Alex's head, fingers cradling him so gently but with so much purpose. Alex doesn't let go of Henry's waist, either.

It seems like it should feel big, scary, complicated. The beginning, middle, or end of a massive mistake, but a mistake, nonetheless. It doesn't feel like that at all. It feels simple and easy and instinctual, as instinctual as the thirds they were singing minutes ago. It feels _right_.

Henry's fingertips stroke so lightly down the side of Alex's neck, and goosebumps break out all over his body, even in the stuffy bus studio. Alex thinks Henry might be holding his breath. He tilts his chin up and presses a tiny kiss to the tip of Henry's nose; Henry laughs. Alex grins at him in return, pulling back. Then Henry takes a deep breath.

"Alex—" he starts, but Alex immediately shakes his head.

"No," Alex tells him, interrupting. "Don't freak out."

Henry stares at him with his mouth open for a second, eyes huge and round. 

"We shouldn't—"

"Did you want to?"

Henry inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth. Alex thinks he can see him mentally counting to ten, can see the tension he's holding around his eyes, rapidly blinking.

"Yes," Henry finally says.

"Do you want to again?"

Henry tugs his lower lip between his teeth, then nods once. "So very, very much."

Alex surges into him before he's even finished saying it. Henry not only meets his intensity, but raises it. Alex can feel the driving force beneath layers of uncertainty and anxiety, sure and powerful and wanting. It takes his breath away.

The next time Henry breaks off, they both gasp for air, all tangled up in each other on the piano bench. Now that Alex is really looking at him, he can see the way Henry's emotions show in his eyes, the set of his mouth, red from kissing, the tense tendon in his neck. Alex follows the line of it with his thumb, wanting to smooth out every wrinkle that makes Henry feel like he has to hold everything inside so tightly. He wants to see Henry laid out bare and open for him, taking and taking and fucking relishing in it.

As though Henry can read Alex’s thoughts, he says, "My bedroom is just next door."

"Are you inviting me?" Alex smirks at him.

"Yes," Henry says, then exhales, giving Alex a small smile. Alex likes how sure he sounds, now. 

"Well, come on, Your Highness," Alex says, drifting his hand up the inside of Henry's thigh before pushing himself up off the piano bench. Henry groans, his fingers tangled in Alex's shirt at his hips.

"Why do you call me that?" Henry looks up at him, eyes dark and gorgeous. Alex fists a hand in his hair, returning his gaze as scornfully as possible.

"You're musical royalty, Prince."

"Then why…" Henry slides off the bench, kneeling on the ground in front of him and pressing his mouth to Alex's clothed hip. "...am I the one on my knees for you?"

Alex's breath catches in his throat at Henry's words; at his voice, deeper and huskier than usual; at the blazing heat of his gaze. Any thoughts of snappy comebacks or flirty insults fly right out of his brain; for once in his life, he's fucking speechless.

Henry chuckles, mouthing closer to his groin. Alex holds back a whimper.

"Weren't we going to your room?" he says, suddenly a lot breathier than he sounded a minute ago. Henry’s fingers find his belt.

“Yes,” Henry says, unbuckling it before climbing to his feet. He leaves the ends dangling open, taking Alex’s proffered hand, not letting go even once he’s up. Then he leans in, pressing a light kiss to Alex’s mouth. It’s so tender after such an intensely erotic display that Alex might be getting whiplash. But, like, in a really fucking good way. A way that he's going to feel into tomorrow.

“You’re surprising,” Alex says as they make their way back through the soundbooth. Henry’s eyes slide to Alex at his left, giving him a weird little smile.

“You didn't think I was straight, did you?”

"Oh God. No. Not that."

"Celibate?"

Alex huffs out a laugh. Henry gives him a playful push into the back bedroom on the bus, then closes the door and leans up against it, watching him. Alex surveys the room. It's small and sparse, the full bed taking up most of it, adorned by plain blue blankets over white sheets.

"More like too obsessed with yourself to concern yourself with anyone else."

Henry's face twists into something halfway between amused and crestfallen. "Ouch."

Alex balls his hands into fists at his sides. "I didn't...know."

"Know what?" Henry's still eyeing him from a short distance away. Alex closes it in two strides.

"That you cared," Alex replies softly, his hand coming to rest on Henry's heart. "And tried. And...wanted."

Henry's chest rises and falls under his palm; his eyes stay on Alex's face. The air around them crackles with tension.

"I want you," Henry says, then scoops Alex roughly up into his arms and crushes their mouths together. 

Time passes in a mess of lips and teeth and roving hands. Henry biting into Alex's lower lip, dragging it out between them. Alex's fingers pulling Henry's head back by the hair and finding his pulse point with his tongue. Kisses and caresses and nails scratched down Alex's back; he's sure they'll leave red lines, even through his t-shirt. The desire passing back and forth between them feels physical and imposing, like something they have to get a handle on, to tame and contain.

Alex didn't know, but now that he does, he feels it through every layer of skin, through firm muscle and fine bones, the knob of Henry's wrist and the jut of his ribs when he inhales sharply.

They shed their clothes in a messy rush, Alex's shirt getting caught around his head, Henry nearly tipping over trying to yank off his shoes and socks. Alex catches him with a laugh, tumbling them both down onto the bed, until Henry cuts him off with his mouth again. He feels incredible, his body pulsing and hot under Alex's hands, sweat damp at his collarbone, his lower back. 

Henry maneuvers himself on top of Alex, straddling his hips. They kiss again, slow and sweet, but it rapidly builds to something more, the ferocity ratcheting up with every few seconds that pass. Henry's lips find Alex's jaw, teeth nipping sharp at his earlobe. Then he lowers himself down Alex's body, dropping kisses along the way, open-mouthed with tongue. 

He takes Alex in hand, stroking gently, settling between Alex's legs and looking up at him with a smile much dirtier than Alex thought Henry was capable of. He looks positively indecent like this; it’s another side to Henry that Alex never imagined could exist, and that only makes it even more beautiful to experience.

"Fuck," Alex breathes, propping himself up on his elbows to meet Henry's eyes. "Fuck, Henry, you're gonna kill me."

"May I?" Henry says, ignoring Alex's predicament completely and licking his lips. Alex doesn't know exactly what his own face is doing at this point, some sort of twisted brow furrow atop a trembling lower lip, and he thinks he probably looks fairly ridiculous but he really doesn’t care. God, he _wants_ , so badly it feels like it might just burst out of him at any second.

"Fuck," Alex repeats. "Fuck, fuck, yes, _please."_

"So obliging," Henry murmurs, then lowers his head.

Henry starts with a soft press of swollen lips, slow swipes of his tongue. Alex's back arches involuntarily as he tries to keep his hips from jerking, and Henry's hand slides up it, like he wants to map the line of its curve, to measure the space he leaves beneath the bridge of his body. Henry feels huge, long fingers stretching up Alex's spine, palming his lower back, and at that moment he takes Alex fully in his mouth, sucking all the way down.

"I'm gonna die," Alex says hoarsely, then drops his head back before he comes on sight. "Oh God, you're incredible. This is too fucking much, you bastard."

Henry responds by dragging his lips back up, then licking along the underside, wet, soft pressure. He's got one hand rubbing insistently, and his other hand is still holding the arch of Alex's back, pressing Alex up into him, and his mouth is just fucking everywhere, soft lips with perfect suction and his firm, flat tongue, and the sounds of it all combined with the string of filthy curses escaping Alex's mouth is obscene, but _fuck_ if it isn't lighting Alex's body up from head to toe.

Alex's leg jerks when Henry exerts extra pressure, his toes raking up Henry's side, and Henry moans in response, like that unintentional touch is somehow turning him on. So Alex finds Henry's hair with his hands, buries his fingers in it and tugs, and Henry's moaning harder around him and sucking harder, too. Alex's entire body is tensing and releasing, moving with the flow of Henry's rhythm, everything leading him toward a narrowed, fevered point, pulling tauter and tauter every second. He's hot, so hot, sweat sheening all over his body as he writhes in Henry's arms, and it takes everything in him to lift his head up and tug on Henry's hair and say, "Wait, stop."

Henry does, instantly, releasing him and stroking a thumb along Alex's inner thigh, so tenderly it makes Alex moan.

"C'mere," he says roughly.

Alex is kissing him as soon as he's within range, surging up into him, white-hot with need. Henry slows him down, tongues him deep, runs gentle fingers down Alex's sides and makes him shiver. He feels drunk with the heady taste of himself, with the softness of Henry's lips on his, with the feel of Henry hard and nudging into his hip. Alex shifts slightly, aligning them. Moans pass back and forth between them, each one nourishing the other with the sounds of their pleasure.

Henry's hand—his fucking palm that stretches so far to fly over the piano keys and reach all the way up Alex's spine—is now finding its way around them both, holding them together and rubbing. It's unreal, all the evidence of Henry's desire pressed physically up against his own, the way Henry is creating friction for them at the same time. His tongue slides hot and slick into Alex's mouth, fucking into it while they thrust up together, and Alex gasps.

Pleasure is pooling low in his belly, a final crescendo, simmering and sparking to life. Alex rips his head to the side, searching for breath around a curse. Henry speaks, then, low in his ear, the same husky voice he used in the studio, "Alex, so good for me," and Alex is undone. He comes shaking in Henry's arms, tearing into his bicep with his teeth, his hips rolling up erratically and the tension bleeding out of his body, shot through with pure pleasure and unanticipated emotion. "Yes, yes, so good, you're beautiful," Henry's murmuring now, every word hitting Alex in the solar plexus, a sweet little punch.

He relaxes his grip on Henry's hair, still panting, turning back and mouthing along Henry's jaw. Henry rubs every little last aftershock out of him, leaving his thighs quivering. Alex usually needs a minute to recover from an orgasm like that, but he wants Henry to feel as good as he does right this second—so he pushes him off, rolling Henry onto his back and following onto his side. 

Before he can even start, Henry's bringing wet fingers to his own mouth with a devilish smirk, sucking them clean. Alex forgets everything he was trying to accomplish and just stares with his mouth dropped open.

"Mmm," Henry says exaggeratedly, licking his lips. Alex bursts out laughing, somehow completely charmed.

"God, now you're just fucking _trying_ to kill me," Alex accuses him, then leans in for a kiss, and they're both smiling into it. Then Alex finally gets a hand around him, and Henry's groaning against his mouth, the sound as rough and honeyed as his singing voice. He feels so good, alive under Alex's touch, his body moving unceasingly and so fucking gorgeous. 

Alex flicks his wrist, glances down to see the tiniest pearl of precome beading up. He bites his lip as Henry's hands find his face, turning him back for another kiss. Alex rubs gently, feeling that small bit of moisture, suddenly desperate to taste him.

"Let me," Alex breathes out after another minute, starting to slide down Henry's body. Henry's breath comes shakily and Alex sees him nod before pushing his legs apart and crawling between them. He presses hot, sucking kisses up the insides of Henry's thighs, not stopping the motions of his hand, circling his thumb and pressing in because it's making Henry's hips jerk and Henry’s legs shake, and Alex is drunk on every involuntary movement Henry's body is enacting under his touch. 

He drags his tongue along the crease between Henry's thigh and groin; Henry's resulting noise is adorably high-pitched and desperate. He kisses softly as he moves up, making his lips as wet and plump as possible, gentle pressure and light suction. Henry's fingers dive into his hair, sending an electrical current through Alex's body.

"Christ," Henry groans. Alex wants to hear him filthier. He stays slow, pumping his fist, pulling at loose skin with his lips, occasionally just the barest bit with his teeth. Henry's hands reach all the way to his neck, encouraging him with the way he tugs Alex's hair and says _yes_ and _please, Alex, please._

"You're gorgeous," Alex murmurs without thinking, eyes flicking up to find Henry looking back at him. Alex has never seen a look like that on his face before—on anyone's face he's ever been with, even. He looks worshipful, disbelieving, stunning in the way he's letting himself go, showing it all to Alex and letting him _have_ it, just like that. Just like Alex wanted.

Henry's jaw drops further open; a nonsensical cry escapes his mouth when Alex continues moving up. Light and wet and teasing, sucking just barely, catching his lower teeth on the ridge so Henry's entire body twitches.

"Alex, please, I need more," Henry begs. "Please, _please_ fuck me," and that's enough. Alex swipes his tongue over the tip, collecting Henry's taste, then swallows him down to the root, feeling Henry in the back of his throat.

Henry's fingers release his hair and find the sheets instead; Alex thinks it's to stop himself from pulling too hard. Henry's entire body is shaking now, his head whiping to one side, his face bright red and his lips swollen and chewed. Alex watches it all, feels it all, as he takes Henry in over and over again, the composure that Henry crafts so carefully coming utterly undone. It's breathtaking to experience, intimate and stunning. It's something so unique to Henry, the way he is, and Alex wants to reveal every side of him until he's reached his core. 

Henry's breathy moans spur Alex on. He pushes Henry's hips hard into the mattress and holds him there, shuddering and jerking into Alex's mouth, until Alex's jaw is getting sore with effort. Finally, Henry goes still and spills hot on Alex's tongue. Alex greedily laps it all up, totally gone at the taste of him, sharp and salty, and at the way Henry's body feels beneath him, wrecked and wrung out, and at the sound of Henry’s helpless, pleasured laugh, a coda so unexpected and beautiful that Alex is sure the resulting adoration he feels is showing plainly in his eyes.

"Oh my God," Henry groans, covering his face with his hands like he can't bear to look at Alex after what just happened. It's strangely adorable. Alex crawls up, straddling his hips and pulling his arms away by the wrists, waiting until Henry cracks one eye open and looks up at him. It's only then that Alex grins and dives in for a messy kiss. Henry kisses him back and clutches at his face and holds on tight.

Finally, Alex rolls off, landing on his back at Henry’s side. They’re both breathing hard; Henry brings a hand back up over his face, leaving it there briefly before pushing damp hair off his forehead. An unfamiliar ache is blooming in Alex's heart at the sight of him, the knowledge of what just passed between them. It feels so big, so unbelievably significant in a way that Alex can't possibly begin to understand, yet it also carries a heavy sense of inevitability, like every possible road would have led them here, anyway.

“That was hot,” Alex says to interrupt his own train of thought. Henry laughs in response; Alex looks over at him, smiling. He’s a little surprised but not displeased when Henry rolls onto his side and cuddles up against him, throwing an arm over his waist.

“I’ve been wanting to do that,” Henry says. His eyes widen, then, as though he can’t believe what he just revealed. Alex thinks about the copy of Rolling Stone, thinks about hours spent in the wings watching Henry perform, thinks about waking up with his erection pressed into Henry’s ass and yeah, okay. Things are kind of starting to make sense, from his end, at least.

“Since Austin?”

Henry shakes his head, presses his mouth to Alex’s shoulder. “Longer.”

"And here I thought you wanted Liam."

Henry laughs against his skin, hard. "Please. Liam and I were talking about you the entire night."

"You were?" Alex reaches to tilt Henry's chin up, finding his eyes.

"Yeah. About what kind of special torture it is to be so painfully infatuated with you when you're completely oblivious all the bloody time."

A laugh bursts its way out of Alex's chest, sudden and full. _"That's_ what you were talking about?"

"Please don't make me feel any more humiliated about it than I already am."

Alex bites back a reply, the grin remaining on his face, warmth spreading through his chest. He wiggles his arm out from between their bodies and wraps it around Henry; Henry’s head falls onto his shoulder. He feels oddly comfortable for how gross they are, slick and sweaty. He haphazardly wipes at himself with the sheet, settles into the bed. It's lumpy like Henry said, but he doesn't mind. He's suddenly tired down to the bone, warm and cozy and completely content.

—

Soft, low notes permeate Alex's consciousness. He lays awash in them, listening, a deep musical hum punctuated by the scratching sound of pencil on paper. Alex shifts and rolls over, opening his eyes. He blinks up to find bright eyes looking down at him in the darkness, the bus bedroom lit only by moonlight flowing in through tinted windows.

"Sorry," Henry whispers, reaching to brush a stray curl off Alex's forehead. "Did I wake you?"

"What time is it?"

"Half two. Couldn't sleep."

Alex pushes himself into a sitting position next to Henry, cuddling into his side. He can see in his periphery the smile that threatens the corners of Henry's lips and suddenly has a strong suspicion Henry started working on music to distract himself from obsessive overthinking. Alex would have done the exact same thing.

"What're you working on?" 

Henry shows him the scrap of paper littered with chicken scratch Alex can only assume are lyrics and even a fucking hand-drawn musical staff in bass clef with a series of notes. The melody looks familiar. "The song from yesterday?"

Henry smiles for real, then takes a deep breath and sings.

_"Should I tell you that when we’re apart_  
_your body comes back to me in dreams?_  
_That when I sleep_  
_I see you_  
_the dip of your waist_  
_the freckle above your hip_  
_and when I wake up in the morning_  
_it feels like I’ve just been with you_  
_the phantom touch of your hand_  
_on the back of my neck_  
_fresh and not imagined?"_

Henry's singing voice in bed in the middle of the night is so different than his performing voice. It's rough and scratchy and imperfect, notes missed here or there and the occasional word disappearing into an inhaled breath. Like he's just singing for himself, because he feels the music, because he needs to. For no one else's consumption, his voice and his alone. He falls quiet, contemplative.

Alex likes seeing this side of Henry.

"You can say no, but…" Henry starts, then pauses, chewing his lip briefly. "I've been thinking...I want to make this a duet. With you. You're getting co-writing credits on the song either way. But I'd like to sing it with you, if you'd do me the honor."

"You want to sing a duet…" Alex says, processing Henry's words with his sleep-addled brain. "...with me?"

He can see Henry's flush darkening, even in the dim light. "Yes. I thought we sounded good together."

"We did, dumbass." Alex flashes him a grin. Henry laughs, tucking his head into Alex's shoulder. "You know that means we'd have to keep working together. Closely."

"I was...rather hoping we'd keep doing a number of things together. Closely." 

Alex laughs, surprised at Henry's forthcomingness, but a lot has been surprising him about Henry lately. He feels a tremor run through Henry's body and a sense of fondness rushes through him. He forces himself to temper his response.

"Yeah, well. Once I found out the kind of head you give, I was sold."

"You should talk," Henry says, grinning at him now. "How long did you have to practice to get rid of your gag reflex entirely?"

"That's natural talent, baby."

"I'd wager you have a lot of talents I'm not aware of."

"Someone has to carry this tour," Alex says, shrugging, and Henry's laughing as he yanks him in for a kiss.

—

Everything changes after that, but it's weird, Alex thinks, how completely natural it all feels. He doesn't stop going out entirely—still takes advantage of the opportunity to party in a new city every few days. But it also ends up being a strangely nice option to follow Henry back to his bus, let Henry put a peely face mask on him, and snuggle up next to him while Henry journals about the show. 

Henry doesn't like to talk after he plays; he describes to Alex the sensation of pouring himself into the crowd until he's completely empty, needs that time in silence to fill back up. But he likes Alex to be there while he does, and Alex likes the way Henry presses their shoulders together, as though some of what he needs to be replenished comes from Alex himself.

Very occasionally, a show goes a certain way, a crowd has a specific energy, and Henry's all jazzed up after—and those are the nights Alex knows he can actually talk him into going clubbing. They gather up the whole crew and take shots, and Alex dances up on Henry while he blushes and bops his head, and it's somehow so much better to pin Henry to the side of the bus with his mouth than any random hookup he would have found before.

They work on the song a lot. Henry's a perfectionist; he likes to spend time testing out possibilities, slight variances on different tunes, a new note here or there on the countermelody. They often end up just singing together, harmonizing, parallel thirds, contrary lines, atonal when Alex inevitably goes into a ridiculous minor key, holding out the note as long as his breath will allow until Henry is shoving him in the chest and falling over the piano in laughter. Alex loves his laugh, loves how much more he seems to be laughing these days.

Henry talks about his family; about his dad. They all come to life in vibrant three dimensions with Henry's rich descriptions, the stories he weaves, the emotion in his voice. The love and support, but also the pressure and expectations and anxiety that came with it—so much anxiety, until Henry was sick from it.

Alex finds he can talk, too, in ways that he never really has before—about the divorce, all his mom's sacrifices, his dad leaving for California and missing all his gigs. It still hurts, but the ever-present ache gnawing at him grows a little bit less when he can share it, leaves a little more space for something else, instead.

The smallest difference that has the biggest impact is the way Henry's face softens when he catches Alex's eye across the room, now, instead of going wide and terrified. The small lift to the corner of his mouth, the place Alex has kissed so many times and felt it lift up the same way beneath his lips. The slight change to his posture, the way he stands a little taller, puffs out his chest just the tiniest bit. 

Alex can't help the giant fucking smile that takes over his face when he sees it all unfold in Henry's body over a split second. How the smile grows even wider when Henry looks down at the ground with a matching grin of his own.

Yes, everything changes. But, Alex thinks, dragging Henry down into his bunk on the empty bus one day, as his eyes catch on the familiar words carved in old, worn wood above his head, he wouldn't change a goddamn thing.

**~ Two Months Later ~**

Alex waits at the side of the stage, oddly nervous. He always gets on edge before performing, but this is different—this doesn't just reflect on himself. It's an added layer of pressure, the weight of wanting someone else to succeed.

On stage, Henry steps away from his piano bench, taking the mic with a wide smile. Alex knows, now, intimately, the details of Henry's performance anxiety, the way his heart batters his ribcage, how he keeps his eyes closed for his first song, pretending he's back in the music room at home playing only for his family. But no one in the audience could tell that by looking at him. He's confident, flushed, and absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful.

Alex's heart swells in his chest.

"I've got a surprise for you, Brooklyn," Henry says. "Can you keep a secret?"

Alex cackles in delight at the way he's working the crowd, but he's drowned out in the responding roar.

"I've got a new song to debut tonight. Would you like to hear it?"

The roar is even louder this time, filling the space, massive and physical. It almost blows Alex off his feet. He drums his fingers on his guitar, so antsy to get out there he might explode.

"Promise you won't tell anyone? This is just for us." Henry throws a wink. Alex thinks he sees at least a dozen women faint down on the floor.

Henry situates the mic back above the piano and sits down, running his fingers through his hair. Alex can see the breath he takes through the curve of his back. Then he settles in and starts to play.

The opening chords of the song are so familiar at this point, Alex could sing each individual note of every harmony in his sleep. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet. Four bars pass, then four more, and then Henry starts singing, those haunting, magical lyrics that hit Alex so hard on the day that changed everything between them. He can't believe they did this—that they're _doing_ this. That Henry is out there singing and waiting for him, because he wanted them to sing it together.

It's not until after the first soft chorus that Alex finally gets to emerge, forcing himself to walk, plucking the countermelody on his acoustic. Henry throws a grin at him over his shoulder, blinding him, and as the screams take over again, Alex can only grin back. He settles himself on the piano bench next to Henry, aware of the tensing muscles in Henry's thigh as he pumps the pedal, the soft, buttery leather of his bomber jacket against Alex's bare arm. It's so wonderful, so wonderfully familiar, and now they finally get to share it.

Alex starts to sing, Henry harmonizing above him.

_"On the map of you_  
_my fingers can always find_  
_the green hills, Wales._  
_Cool waters and a shore of white chalk._  
_The ancient part of you_  
_carved out of stone_  
_in a prayerful circle, sacrosanct._  
_Your spine's a ridge_  
_I'd die climbing."_

It's quiet, now, in the crowd, like everyone is collectively holding their breath. Alex pours everything he has into the song—into Henry—and Henry fills him up in return. The moment feels so fragile, like a dream. Alex never wants to wake up.

The rest of the song is over in an instant, but the moment after stretches out into eternity. Alex and Henry sit in the silence, turning to face each other, just fucking feeling it. Letting it all wash over them, breathing it in, _living_ in it.

The noise swells from the crowd, a wave surging to crest. Henry's hands come up to Alex's jaw, cupping his face, falling into him, and then Henry kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him, and it's the sweetest reprise of all.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are amazing!! Thank you so much for reading, come find me on [tumblr](https://omgcmere.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/cmere)! <3


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